The Wolf Trial is billed as ‘Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose meets Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho in a brilliant historical epic’. To paraphrase a quote from the film, Jerry Maguire, ‘you had me at Umberto’.

It’s a bold comparison, and a tall order for any book to match up to two of my favourite novels. I have to report, thankfully, that The Wolf Trial does not disappoint.

Inspired by the first ever documented account of a serial killer in the world history, when a local landowner, Peter Stumpf, was accused of murdering nearly seventy people in 16th century Germany, Neil Mackay’s novel is an extraordinary story told in a compelling way; sometimes as a reader you want to look away, or flick on a few pages – those are the ‘American Psycho’ sections – but you never do because, just like Ellis’ novel, the scenes of violence or descriptions of almost unimaginable depravity are not their gratuitously or for gratification (for reader or writer) but are absolutely central to the novel and what the author is saying.

There are similarities with Umberto Eco’s classic novel; the narrator is now an old man living in the original area of Glasgow University, in the city’s High Street district, who puts down on paper the story of The Wolf Trial, which he was part of as a young assistant to a lawyer sent to the German town of Bideburg where ‘the wolf’ was being held, having being caught in the act of killing and eating one of his victims.

The narrator’s boss, Paulus Melchior, is a lawyer tasked with prosecuting the case, and while he concludes that Stumpf is a human killer rather than a werewolf, and will be tried as such, that conclusion puts him at odds with the religious authorities who believe that Stumpf is in league with the Devil and want to convict him as a werewolf, and also execute his wife and children for their guilt by association

There are some scenes which are not for the squeamish, although Stumpf’s descriptions of his own murderous spree are nowhere near as shocking as those carried out by the ‘authorities’ in whatever guise they might be in – political, military or religious. The point is an obvious one – there is an apparent acceptance of state or Church-sanctioned murder, and in terms more grotesque than the killings carried out by a solitary serial killer. In the sixteenth century world of religious fanaticism, conflict and power, it was hard to accept that a fellow human being was capable of such acts – just as it is today – and there had to be other Satanic reasons for such barbarity, hence the serial killer wasn’t actually a human at all, but someone with the power to transform himself into a werewolf.

There is a section late on in the book which involves Stumpf’s wife and daughters recounting family folklore stories, which felt surplus to requirement and almost out of place with the pace of the rest of the narrative, but given the way the story builds again to a crescendo, it may be that the author, and reader, is getting a chance to take a breather before plunging into the dramatic conclusion.

Neil Mackay has written a great historical novel that is thrilling, thought-provoking, sometimes shocking but absolutely captivating.

The Wolf Trial by Neil Mackay is published by Freight Books and is out on April 21.

Whenever someone says to me, ‘Wait ‘til I tell you about the dream I had last night,’ my heart sinks. It really does. I can actually feel it sinking, and I have to resist the urge to reply, ‘No thanks,’ or something much ruder, while trying to disguise an expression that says, ‘I couldn’t care less.’

There can be few things more boring than listening to a description of someone else’s dream. They rarely make sense to the person whose dream it is, so it just sounds nonsensical to the rest of the entire world.

They’re not funny or strange or crazy or weird or outrageous or hilarious … they’re just BORING! Always. It’s the equivalent being shown someone else’s holiday snaps – I wasn’t there and so it means nothing to me.

I don’t often remember my dreams, and the ones that I do, I keep to myself. That’s because I know people aren’t interested in what has been going through my sub-conscious mind.

So someone says to me … ‘Wait ‘til I tell you about the dream I had last night (My heart starts sinking) … I was sitting eating a burger and chips when Morrissey came into the kitchen riding a Shetland Pony, singing Meat Is Murder. I had to stuff the burger into my pocket but he started sniffing, saying he could smell meat and that if it was me who’d been eating it, then he wouldn’t let me be in his band any more. It was really weird because then the child catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang appeared in the garden, shouting, ‘Ice-Cream, Lollipops,’ and Morrissey and I ran upstairs and hid under the bed and…’

SHUT UP! NOW! I DON’T CARE!

What you have just told me are the ravings of a mad person. It might make you laugh, but I’m crying inside, and if you don’t stop right now, you will actually see a fully grown man cry.

I’m too polite to say to your face that I don’t want to hear about your dreams, so I’m hoping that everyone who knows me, and everyone who might ever meet me in the future reads this plea … because that’s what it is – a genuine heartfelt plea to keep your dreams to yourself.

I won’t mind if you recount them to yourself and then laugh about how crazy or daft or funny they sound. In fact, I’ll even thank you for it. You might ask yourself what the dream means. That’s fine. Just don’t ask me because I don’t know. How could I ever possibly know?

Sigmund Freud, in his seminal work, The Interpretation of Dreams, stated that ‘Dreams are often most profound when they seem the most crazy.’

Sigmund obviously never had the misfortune to listen to some of the crazy dreams I’ve been told, none of which have ever been profound.

And it’s worth bearing in mind that, in the same work, the bold Doctor Freud also stated that, ‘I was making frequent use of cocaine at that time … I had been the first to recommend the use of cocaine, in 1885, and this recommendation had brought serious reproaches down on me.’

You can email author@paulcuddihy.com with your thoughts and observations … but no dreams. Definitely no dreams!

It almost feels like a prerequisite for being a curmudgeon to rail against text-speak, emojis, emails and all other forms of modern communication which are, slowly but surely, heralding the destruction of the English language.

It has been a Godsend to those who are either too lazy to spell or punctuate properly, or who don’t know how to do either because now it doesn’t matter, and just in case the last vestiges of guilt still remain lodged in your heart and mind that what you’ve just written is an affront to articulate, intelligent discourse, simply finish your correspondence with ‘LOL’ or a smiley face and everything will be forgiven and forgotten; sometimes it seems like we live in a world where people are permanently laughing out loud.

I have to confess that I have used smiley faces in the past but stopped when the sense of self-loathing threatened to overwhelm me.

So maybe it doesn’t matter how many mistakes litter a text between two friends, or how many text-speak abbreviations are included, but I feel that accepting this is just putting us on the slippery slope to illiteracy. Job applications and other official forms or even just general communication are now littered with mistakes, all of which are embarrassing and most of which are avoidable.

Texting is mainly to blame. I watch my children speed-typing on their phone, and while their dexterity is impressive, I know that what is eventually sent is, in all probability, gobbledygook. As for emails, they’ve become an integral part of our daily lives, and while I have become as reliant on them as everyone else, I believe their introduction heralded the first assault on ‘proper’ English (ie: spelling, grammar, punctuation).

When, for example, the city of Birmingham announced its intention to scrap apostrophes on street signs back in 2009, the signs were ominous for the future.

And what is it with apostrophes? Does no-one know how to use them any more? If in doubt, leave it out. That’s always been my advice. That way, the person reading what you’ve written may well surmise that it’s just been an oversight on your part not to include an apostrophe. Using them incorrectly, however, is merely drawing attention to your grammatical fallibility.

There is probably not enough time left to point out to people their mistakes, and even if I did, there’s little chance they’re going to take it on board … Did you see what I did there? No? I rest my case.

Our ability to communicate is one of the most important skills we have, first through the spoken word and then through writing those words down. I know that language has evolved over many centuries and will continue to evolve in the centuries to come, and it does fascinate me how different languages can all say the same thing, even though you might only understand one version, but regardless of this inevitable evolution, we should still hold on to the rudiments and not casually destroy them in the name of modernity, expediency or just sheer laziness.

There is an argument that text-speak is actually a language in its own right rather than representing a decline in people’s competency with their native tongue, but I’m not really convinced by that, and it sounds like a flag of convenience for creeping illiteracy.

More alarming is the fact that things like ‘LOL’ and ‘OMG’ can now be found in the Oxford English Dictionary. ‘GTF’ is what I say to that. New words appear in the dictionary while others vanish forever, and many words have changed their meaning over the years. For example, many of the characters in Charles Dickens’ novels ejaculate during conversations, though thankfully it’s just a figure of speech and not a worrying 19th century medical condition; I’m sure plenty of Victorians would have had cause to ‘LOL’ if the latter had been the case.

Yet, even as I grumble about this subject, I fear that my words will fall on deaf ears, and that I have as much chance of reversing this inexorable linguistic deterioration as King Canute had of commanding the tide to stop.

And before anyone starts to write an email to me, pointing out any errors they’ve spotted in this piece, I will offer my standard defence … there’s only one infallible Catholic in the world, and it’s not me.

You can email author@paulcuddihy.com with your thoughts, observations and smiley faces (though I will know that I’m better than you if you sign off with ‘LOL’!).

Curmudgeon: An ill-tempered (and frequently old) person full of stubborn ideas or opinions.

So I’m just a few months away from turning 50. It doesn’t really concern me. Age is just a number after all, as a wise woman once told me, and she’s absolutely right.

It’s not like I’ll wake up on my birthday – okay, it’s July 15th, since you’re asking – and suddenly feel old. I can see with my own reading glasses that I’m ageing. I’m bald, my beard, magnificent though it is, is laced with grey. My body aches after exercise, which sometimes just constitutes walking up and down the stairs.

I tune in now to Radio 4, and prefer to listen to a programme called ‘Can you be a feminist and an Orthodox Jewish woman’ than just about any other station which features occasional music and an over-abundance of inane chat from the DJ; the exception is Absolute 80s because the tunes are top-class.

I feel that I’ve embraced middle-aged rather than run from it, and in particular, the joy of being a curmudgeon. I take the label as a compliment.

Just as I’m looking forward to my senior years when I can wear a suit, shirt, tie, jumper and a pair of trainers, I’m now relishing the chance to display some curmudgeonly traits without apology.

And rather than just keep all this to myself, or annoy, infuriate or exasperate my family with my ramblings or ranting, I’ve decided to share it all with you.

No, honestly, there’s no need to thank me.

So in the weeks and months ahead, you can look forward to my thoughts on a whole range of subjects. I won’t spoil the surprise by revealing what I’ll be writing about – my middle-aged memory means I can’t remember everything which annoys or irritates me, so it’ll take me a while to compile that list – but fear not, A Curmudgeon Writes is coming soon. You have been warned!

I should explain from the outset that I usually like a seat whenever I go to a concert. It’s a sign of age. Too long on my feet and my back starts to hurt. What can I say? I’m nearly fifty. I’m not sure whether calling it ‘a concert’ rather than ‘a gig’ also ages me, but I’m not going to start trying to be down with the kids now.

So why am I telling you this? It’s just that in going to see Duran Duran, I abandon my usual desire for a seat in a part of the venue where I can be sure no over-enthusiastic music fan will jump up in front of me and start dancing in favour of the floor section that is, to all intents and purposes, a standing area.

Everyone does have an allocated seat, but as soon as the band appears on stage, everyone is on their feet, and that remains the case for the duration of the concert, some two hours in total.

I even sway slightly during the night – it’s what passes for dancing at my age – and my accompaniment to every song deserves 10 out of 10 for enthusiasm, even if I have to lip-sync the parts where I’m not sure of the words. In short, I let my hair down – metaphorically, since I’m bald – and enjoy a great night of music.

From the moment Duran Duran opened the set with Paper Gods, the title track of their new album, they carried the crowd with them, and that remained the case right up until they took their final bow.

The majority of the audience were reliving their youth in one shape or form as they sang their favourite tunes from the 1980s with gusto, while also enjoying some of the new tracks and a few others from Duran Duran’s career that has now lasted well over 30 years – their first single, Planet Earth was released in 1981 – and it’s that connection with the past, as well as the band’s ability to keep producing a high standard of new music, which accounts for their enduring popularity.

Planet Earth was one of the most popular songs of the night, though the preceding track, Pressure Off, another 2015 song, was greeted with equal enthusiasm, something which pleased me. They’ve still got it, I thought.

Indeed, the songs from the Paper Gods album sounded as good as anything the band played on the night. It might have been the excellent acoustics of the Hydro venue, the enthusiasm of the crowd, or the fact that this is a band who can really play, but at the end of What Are The Chances – one of the stand-out tracks on the new album – Simon Le Bon declared that he didn’t think they had ever played it better.

The set was also laced with tracks from the different eras of the band’s career, including Come Undone, Love Voodoo, I Don’t Want Your Love, (Reach Up For The) Sunrise – I still don’t understand the need for brackets in the title – and a rousing version of Grandmaster Flash and Melle Mel’s White Lines.

Ordinary World was dedicated to the people of Scotland, and its First Minister, Nicola Sturgeon, who had recently selected the track as one of her Desert Island Discs; mention of her name was met mainly by cheers, but also a few boos. I can only blame some lax stewarding for letting a few ‘better together’ scoundrels into the venue.

The encore blended the serious and the celebratory – Save A Prayer was dedicated to the victims of the recent terrorist attack in Paris; the band who were playing at the Bataclan Theatre that night, Eagles of Death Metal do a cover of the song. Thousands of people turned the torches on in their mobile phones, waving them in the air throughout the song. Back in the day, it would have been cigarette lighters.

Then the band finished with Rio, against a backdrop of the iconic ‘80s album cover of the same name. It was the perfect end to the concert, sending everyone home in high spirits … and my back didn’t hurt at all.

SET LISTPaper Gods
Wild Boys
Hungry Like The Wolf
A View To A Kill
Come Undone
Last Night In The City
What Are The Chances
White Lines
Only In Dreams
Love Voodoo
Notorious
I Don’t Want Your Love
Pressure Off
Planet Earth
Ordinary World
Sunrise/New Moon On Monday
Danceophobia/Too Much Information/Girls On Film

I’m not always comfortable about drawing comparisons between two apparently disparate subjects or events, and even as I try to do just that, I accept that others reading this might be equally as uncomfortable with the point I’m attempting to make.

In writing this, I’m also not trying to lessen in any way the impact of recent events in Paris because it is, without question, shocking, upsetting and very worrying that 129 innocent people were murdered while they were enjoying the sort of things we all like to do every weekend – going out for a meal, a drink, to a concert or to a football match.

My thought when these tragedies happen is always ‘there but for the grace of God.’

I can also understand the anger and desire for revenge that comes in the wake of such terrible events, though the rush to find a convenient scapegoat always dismays and worries me in equal measure. History is littered with catastrophic examples of what happens when a religion, race or group of people are universally blamed for things that are clearly not their fault. I’d like to think we – and I mean people and society in general – have learned lessons from the past, but I’m not altogether optimistic about that.

That is a discussion for another day, perhaps. Today I just wanted to make this observation.

In 2014, no-one died in the United Kingdom as a result of a terrorist attack.

In 2014, 4,623 men in the United Kingdom took their own life. That equates to over 12 men every day – one man every two hours. Most of those men were between the ages of 18-45.

Now if those figures haven’t shocked, upset or worried you, then I’m not sure there’s much point in you reading any further.

I have heard it said many times before on radio or television that suicide is the biggest single cause of death amongst men between the ages of 18-45 in the UK, but seeing those figures written down absolutely shocks me.

I’m sure we all know, either directly or indirectly, people who have been affected by suicide, either as a victim or as someone who is left asking why and wondering if there was more they could or should have done to help prevent it.

I don’t know how it feels when you get to the stage where you believe that your best option is to take your own life, nor do I know how the family and friends of someone who has done so feel in the days and weeks and months and years afterwards.

My only thought, again, is ‘there but for the grace of God.’

I’m not sure I have a point to make. Maybe it’s just a series of questions swirling about in my head.

Why are we not outraged by this killer that lurks within our society and claims 12 innocent victims every single day of year?

Why are we not demanding that our government takes action to tackle this in the form of proper investment across a whole range of agencies and initiatives designed to offer help and hope to those most at risk, and to try and lower this terrible death toll?

What can we do, as individuals, communities and as countries to help people who need it most, and when they need help most?

As I said already, I don’t want to downplay what happened in Paris, or lessen the impact that it has had, primarily on the families and friends of the victims, but also on all of us. The loss of one life is a terrible tragedy, never mind 129.

But it strikes me that our fear of terror (an Orwellian phrase if ever there was one), our desire for revenge – which might make sensationalist headlines and ‘good’ TV but which doesn’t appear to solve anything – our rush to blame the innocent and our willingness to accept an erosion of our freedoms in the name of security, is all so misguided and ultimately futile.

The most powerful nation on earth has waged a ‘war on terror’ for over 14 years now and I don’t see the world being a better place or the ‘terror’ having been defeated. Why is that going to change now that France has joined the war or that the British government is desperate to do so?

If only we could channel some of that energy, anger, outrage or even demand for action into tackling something as devastating and deadly as suicide then maybe, just maybe, lives might be saved and the world would be a better place for those families who, otherwise, have to deal with the heartbreaking aftermath of losing a loved one so needlessly.

I published my new book, As Easy As A Nuclear War, a collection of short stories inspired by Duran Duran song titles, at the beginning of June 2015. Included in the collection is a story, Hold Back The Rain, which contains a reference to the legendary Irish singer, Val Doonican.

I have a lot of great memories of watching Val on TV when I was younger, and I love a lot of his songs – I even used to sing Walk Tall at parties, but stopped after I kept forgetting the words when I had too much to drink! So I was saddened to hear of his passing on July 1 at the age of 88. His daughter, Sarah, said: ‘It was just old age, I’m afraid – the batteries ran out.’

Here is my short story, Hold Back The Rain, for your enjoyment. I’m away to learn some Val Doonican songs all over again.

HOLD BACK THE RAIN

I saw Andy Taylor walking into my local supermarket the other day. I don’t want to tell you which one because I don’t like to give the bastards any free publicity, and if I said where it was they’d chase me next time I turned up there with my guitar and started playing outside, because they’re bastards.

I was in the middle of a song, I Will Always Love You – the Dolly Parton original, obviously, not that woeful Whitney Houston version – when I saw him walking across the car park. For a moment I was almost distracted enough to forget what I was singing, but I managed to keep it together so that no-one noticed. The words kept coming out of my mouth in time to the music, but in my head I kept hearing, ‘Fuckin’ hell. There’s Andy Taylor, the former lead guitarist with 1980s pop band, Duran Duran.’ I cut the song short as he reached the front door.

“Andy! Andy!” I shouted but he either didn’t hear me or he ignored me as he disappeared inside the shop. I hoped it was the former because I hate it when famous people are like that, acting all big-headed and ignoring you just because they’re rich and you’re busking out in the cold while a wee drunk woman dances in front of you in time to a different beat.

Carol Vorderman totally blanked me once, even when I told her I preferred her on Countdown to Rachel Riley. That’s not true, though Carol wasn’t to know that.

I decided to have a rest and wait until Andy came back out of the shop, so I sat down on the speaker and rested the guitar on my lap. I had a Star Bar in my pocket which seemed quite appropriate, and I nibbled it because it would be a while before I ate again.

When I saw Andy I was going to tell him that he was the reason that I started playing guitar. Famous people like it when you pander to their ego. That wasn’t true either. It was really Val Doonican.

I saw him on the telly when I was only about six. He was playing the guitar and singing – I don’t remember the song – but it sounded amazing and I decided right there and then that that’s what I wanted to do. It’s unlikely I’ll ever see Val around here to tell him, though. I don’t even know if he’s still alive, but if I did see him, I’d tell him that Paddy McGinty’s Goat is one of the greatest songs ever written, and I wouldn’t be making that up.

After about twenty minutes, Andy Taylor reappeared clutching a carrier bag. I couldn’t make out everything that was in it, but a big plastic bottle of Irn Bru was sticking out the top.

“Andy!” I shouted, standing up. “Andy mate. You’re a legend.”

He was coming towards me but still he didn’t smile or nod or even acknowledge me.

I started playing Hold Back The Rain and singing. He glanced briefly in my direction but kept walking.

“Andy Taylor?” I said, stepping out in front of him.

“Sorry pal, you must have the wrong guy.”

“You’re not Andy Taylor?”

“No.”

“From Duran Duran?”

“No.”

“You’re a dead ringer for him.”

“Sorry.”

He walked round me and headed back towards his car. I followed him and noticed that he got into a black Corsa. It wasn’t really a rock star’s car, but it might have been his wife’s. I could have sworn it was definitely him, though when I thought about it later, I remembered that the band were English and my Andy Taylor definitely had a Glasgow accent.

Hold Back The Rain is taken from my new book, As Easy As A Nuclear War, a collection of short stories inspired by Duran Duran song titles. It’s out now and available HERE

If I had to choose just one Duran Duran song for Desert Island Discs, then I’d have to go for Save A Prayer. If I could pick another song, it would be Secret Oktober.

It’s a track that will be familiar to some Duran Duran fans but maybe less so to others. It was the B-side to the band’s 1983 single, Union of the Snake – in old money, that’s the other side of a seven-inch vinyl single.

It’s a soft and haunting track, and from the day I bought the record, some thirty-three years ago now, I’ve always preferred Secret Oktober to the A-side. That’s not to say that I dislike Union of the Snake. Far from it, I think it’s a great song, but it’s the B-side which has stayed with me.

One of the highlights of going to see Duran Duran live was when they played Secret Oktober live during what was effectively a greatest hits tour – I think it was around 1998. And I do remember feeling like I was showing off because I knew all the words and was singing along loudly. I’d love to hear them play it again in a live set.

Back in the day, B-sides were always a mixed bag. Some would give the impression of being half-formed, half-arsed bits of music hastily put together in order for the single to be released. Others would be hidden gems that fought with the A-side for the affections of the listener. Secret Oktober was one such track, and it remains one of my favourite Duran Duran songs.

I still don’t know why there’s a ‘k’ in ‘Oktober’, though, so if any Duran Duran fan could enlighten me, I would be forever grateful.

Ferris Buller famously said on the morning that he took a day off – ‘Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.’

The quote came to mind as I listened to Duran Duran’s new single, Pressure Off, and realised it’s been five years since they last released new material – the superb All You Need Is Now album.

In the blink of an eye, it’s now 2015 and I’m older but not any wiser – though I have grown a magnificent beard to try and appear sage-like – and the band are back with a bang.

They have been working again with the musical genius that is Nile Rodgers, while Mark Ronson is co-producing the new album with Rodgers after his sterling work on All You Need Is Now, and while the sound is unmistakeably Duran Duran, there’s also a vibrancy and vitality to it which is fully immersed in the present thanks to these influences.

Pressure Off also features the vocal talents of Janelle Monáe, an American singer/songwriter. I have to confess it was a name I wasn’t familiar with, though that probably says more about my lack of knowledge about the current music scene – I’m a middle-aged guy, so you’ll need to forgive me! ­ But her presence on the track gives it an added boost.

Duran Duran have returned with a superb new single with augurs well for the forthcoming Paper Gods album, which is due for release in September.

I’ve got a new book coming out soon – As Easy As A Nuclear War – which is a collection of short stories inspired by Duran Duran song titles. It’s a book I’m really proud of, combining two of my interests – writing and music. And I’m also thrilled that the book is being released by Drone Publishing Ltd, who have already published a number of interesting music-related books.

There will be more news to follow in the next few weeks, when I’ll reveal the cover, the list of story titles, and, of course, the actual release date for the book. So watch this space…

In the meantime, here’s the official press release that Drone Publishing released to announce the news to the world…

Drone Publishing are delighted to announce that they will be publishing the much-anticipated new book by Paul Cuddihy.

The book, As Easy As A Nuclear War, is a collection of short stories inspired by Duran Duran song titles, and joins the growing catalogue of music-related publications in the Drone Publishing catalogue.

And it’s a return to fiction for the author following his successful foray into self-publishing last year with a non-fiction book, Read All About It.

Paul Cuddihy said: “As anyone who knows me will tell you, I’ve always been a big Duranie, so this book has been a real labour of love for me. The stories are all inspired by Duran Duran song titles, and I’m sure any fan of the band will enjoy them, although there’s also something for everyone in the collection.

“I’m thrilled that the book is being published, and I feel that Drone Publishing is the perfect home for As Easy As A Nuclear War.’

Book shop angels, lonely tattooists and deaf drummers all make an appearance in As Easy As a Nuclear War, a book that will make you laugh, cry or perhaps even burst into song.

Taking his inspiration from Duran Duran song titles, Paul Cuddihy has crafted a memorable collection of short stories … and who wouldn’t want to read about a fight at the Class of ’83 school reunion between middle-aged Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet fans?

As Easy As A Nuclear War: short stories inspired by Duran Duran song titles by Paul Cuddihy will be published by Drone Publishing in May 2015.